


Wake Up Fine

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biting, Bottom Eddie Kaspbrak, Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Canon - IT (Book/Movie/Miniseries Combination), Canon Queer Character, Casual Sex, Coming Out, Companionable Snark, Developing Relationship, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Feelings, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Bottoming, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, Getting Together, Groping, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Making Out, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Nipple Play, Only It's Never Casual When It's Richie and Eddie, Pining, Porn With Plot, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Reversible Couple, Richie Tozier Has a Big Dick, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Self-Esteem Issues, Service Top Richie Tozier, Sexual Experimentation, Size Kink, Top Richie Tozier, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21538039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: Embarrassingly enough, it only occurs to him much later that he never asked Eddie how come he was in LA to begin with. Huh.In which Richie wants to be agood friend. Really he does.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 41
Kudos: 237





	Wake Up Fine

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you gotta write many thousands of words of Reddie porn. Title from "Hard Times" by Paramore.

All evidence seems to point to the world being a pretty shitty place on average, which does not go very far towards explaining how the fuck the six of them make it out alive by the end of it (and the _actual end_ of It). Incredibly traumatised, yes, and definitely sporting more than a few bruises and cuts in interesting places, but extraordinarily still very much not dead as a doornail. Huh.

Just six Losers smushing a clown heart between their hands, together, like it's simply another garden-variety weekday.

Colour Richie surprised, am I right?!

Like, he's fairly certain at least a good percentage of them should be kinda dead, but—gift horse, mouth.

Six months into the new era of his life he's privately referring to as Post-Pennywise (just to make that ultimate climb up to the very top of the Richie Is Fucked-Up metre) everything is going well. As in, everything is going _surprisingly_ well, therefore Richie is immediately suspicious, and very loudly so, mostly in Bev's general direction, though he believes it lessens the impact of his ranting at two AM about impending catastrophe somewhat once the distance between them has hit quadruple digits.

At least she and Ben are doing the horizontal tango where Richie can't witness their sugary couple antics firsthand, but the late-night Skype calls can't quite make up for having her, or any one of them for that matter, in his space, sharing air and proving it's all been more than just the most realistic nightmare ever, more than just childhood trauma coming back to haunt him and upending his life in new and unexpected ways.

Visiting Mike has turned into House Hunters Florida Edition for Bev and Ben, and even Bill and his wife are taking a break from Hollywood to travel the country, second-honeymoon style; therefore, as far as the lot of them are concerned, things are on the up and up where avoiding impending mortal danger is concerned, however much the voice at the back of Richie's mind might be fretting about _what's going to happen after another twenty-seven years_.

It's only Eddie who is also going through his own shit Richie doesn't feel like thinking about just now, thanks. A distracted Eddie explaining in a very hurried one AM phone call from across the country that he might be going through some "major changes" and for Richie to "not worry"—inverted commas very much required—is too huge and scary for Richie to focus on while trying to let go of the panic any unknown caller ID on his personal number now produces.

The funny thing about regaining all of his memories involving his best friends is that he's equally in need of being constantly reassured about their general well-being, while simultaneously terrified the danger is, in fact, at hand.

But, even so, Eddie did still have the inclination to promise a visit, _as soon as stuff gets settled_ , whatever the fuck that means, and Richie would really appreciate it, after all, if people kept him in the loop with the serious shit at the very least, if solely to avoid any future killer clown situations.

Be careful what you wish for then, huh.

(Not about the killer clown, though. _It_ is definitely dead as a doornail.)

*

It's a boring Tuesday morning when he gets a call from an unknown number just as he's throwing his keys in the bowl by the front door. He's got all Derry numbers blocked on principle, but the cold dread has him for a moment there anyway, lapping at his heels like the Hounds of Hell. Yeah, he's gotten a wee bit morbid due to recent, ahem, _events_.

Convincing himself it could be a producer his manager has been dogging for _two weeks now, what even is this business_ finally following up on recording some of his shit for a Special, Richie answers with a casual, "Tozier speaking," only to have someone snicker in his ear and reply with, "You always sound like a fratboy douchebag when you answer your phone?"

Thing is, even though they all now remember everything which came before, memories tend to drift away. It's normal. Your brain does that all on its own, no alien killer clown interference required. But, even more importantly, your past tends to catch up with you anyway, usually unexpectedly, usually when you're with your pants down in a non-fun way.

When this happens, he's back to being a gawky thirteen year old, thoughts abuzz and skin burning up in his best friend's bedroom, trying to be quiet against Sonia Kaspbrak's suspicions. A voice over a phone line can do that, bring him back to being that kid, afraid and wanting.

"Only when I'm fucking your mom."

"Beep beep, Richie," Eddie says. The line doesn't crackle and Richie breathes out evenly enough to not get heard over the crystal connection they're having.

Beep fucking beep.

*

So. Post-Pennywise life is fucking weird, as in Eddie Kaspbrak should not be phoning Richie up to tell him about his divorce, no siree Bob.

And yet Richie hears him uttering the words perfectly because there's nothing wrong with his hearing. Hears him say he wants to meet up for drinks, or at least an alcohol-free beer ( _"Ew, don't be gross, Spaghetti!"_ ), and Richie ends up inviting him to his show in WeHo that night, and then spends fifteen minutes explaining how to get to the Store before giving up with the promise of sharing a GMaps link, Jesus Christ.

Then Richie stares at his phone for far too long. He pointedly does not panic. Eddie sounded _fine_.

Embarrassingly enough, it only occurs to him much later that he never asked Eddie how come he was in LA to begin with. Huh.

*

The permanent move from Chicago made absolute sense six month ago. He was spending most of his working days, when not on tour, in Southern California anyway. Factually, there are many more opportunities for an up-and-coming comedian here, and part of him doesn't even know why he got stuck in Chicago in the first place. He used to do gigs as a foul-mouthed midnight disc jockey back in the late Nineties and into the Noughties for various radio stations in the Bay Area. It payed surprisingly well for a straight out of college aspiring comedian. Then the Midwest called out to him, and he answered for some unknown reason. His manager has always boggled at his success, given he's refused on multiple occasions to move back to Cali.

Richie couldn't even say why he decided the move had to happen _now_ , might just as well be garden-variety delayed shock and odd coping mechanisms, but shortly after getting back from Derry he made a few phone calls and then it was happening, he was buying a place and packing his shit, moving across the country and into a neighbourhood full of potential assholes he'd have to pretend to like at industry parties and during talk shows and on mediocre sit-com sets next to dubious catering.

But it's been six full months, and the move undeniably makes a whole lot of sense career-wise. The confidence it took to see it and make it happen is paying off. Only Richie can't focus on any of that right now because he's being told by a no-nonsense PA that his guest has already picked up the ticket Richie left for him at the door, and Richie himself is on in under five minutes, and the lights won't be bright enough to hide the audience. He usually hates the strong yellows and blues shining into his eyes, gets easily blinded by them, which has the obvious consequence of preventing him from seeing into the crowd, which would be a genuine blessing this time around.

He hasn't crashed and burned since the night Mike phoned him to come back to Derry, but he feels like he might explode right the fuck now into a thousand pieces, a scattering of Richie Tozier shards they'll never be able to put back together again. Like fucking Humpty Dumpty.

Shit, he should've had a drink before going on stage after all.

A shudder works through him then, and it carries him onto the stage and through his act, eyes widely staring into the lights at the back of the room to avoid the other pairs fixed on him. Thankfully, he doesn't freeze, or forget any of the punch lines, or pass the fuck out even, but he couldn't tell you what his act was about, despite writing his own stuff now. And suddenly applause, genuine and oddly flattering, and he's exiting stage left, arms saluting, viscerally grateful he's here and not buried underneath a pile of shit in good ol' Derry.

It feels as if he's taken a hit of something, or maybe just a hit upside the head, because his hands are shaking when he hasn't had anything resembling stage fright in well over a decade. But the same PA from before is shuffling his feet beside him before starting for the part of the building containing the dressing rooms, presumably leading Richie back where he came from before his cue, and he follows at a brisk pace, head nowhere near considering he might not be taken to an empty room to chill the fuck out on his own.

Oh, no. Nothing like that. His dressing room is certainly occupied. The PA doesn't even spare him a glace before closing the door on him and Eddie Kaspbrak, his guest, the last ghost Richie expected to get haunted by in LA. Like, Richie left instructions Eddie should be given a backstage pass, yet a part of him has been operating under the assumption that Eddie wouldn't even show up, in spite of actual confirmation he had.

Arms unfolding from across his chest to bury themselves in his jeans pockets, Eddie half-smiles like only someone who's known you since you used to blow your nose in your own shirtsleeve can.

"Figured you'd be writing your own stuff after... everything. Didn't figure it would actually be any good."

Untethered laughter bursts out of him for several pleasant seconds. The corners of his eyes almost ache from his wide mouth holding onto his smile before it turns into a smirk and a half, the Richie Tozier Bullshit Special.

"Is this a backhanded compliment I'm hearing? Oh, Eddie-kins, you shouldn't have," he gushes obnoxiously, but there's something like genuine pride in the creases around Eddie's eyes and the quirk of his small smile. Richie feels like the Grinch, internal organs growing grossly huge. His best insufferable smirk is harder to hold onto than usual.

Coffee seems like a bad idea, he's already a jittery mess and Eddie doesn't seem like he should ever be allowed any, but Richie's trying to significantly cut down on the booze these days. Coping mechanisms aren't what they used to be.

He says, "The place two blocks down makes a mean decaf espresso," and Eddie says he's gotta try it sometime, and Richie doesn't get if it means he's being turned down for low-pressure decaf coffee when Eddie was the one who wanted to meet up to begin with, but the confusion only lasts the time it takes Eddie to add, "I'd rather stay clear of places where your adoring fans could ambush us. I swear, next time you yell at a little kid you're getting arrested for sure, man, and I don't want anything to do with that. Anywhere we can go talk where no one will bother us?"

Which is how Richie doubles-down on his decaf espresso idea, only he asks for it in to-go cups and Eddie follows his lead. Then he drives them down Santa Monica into Melrose, radio turned down low, until Eddie tells him to stop and park, and they end up walking themselves to the nearest dog park to sit with their coffees on the first available bench.

It's all so weird all of a sudden. Eddie is being weird. Nothing Richie could put his finger on, and they haven't really interacted with each other much outside of imminent peril in twenty-something years, but Richie _knows Eddie Kaspbrak_ , and he knows it in his gut when Eddie's being strange as fuck. Eddie is definitely being strange as fuck _right now_.

"You OK there, buddy?" he asks around the rim of his cup, the lid abandoned, blowing the steam away.

They're sitting side by side at a comfortable distance, staring out at a man in a golf outfit who has been trying to will his Terrier to do the deed since they sat themselves down several minutes ago. Eddie hasn't said much in that time, and Richie has been wondering when all the talking Eddie wanted to do is going to happen but outwardly content to follow suit and sip away until it does, though mentally pretty certain that if he has to take anymore of the silent treatment he's going to break out the Voices, and no one's wanted that since about 2003.

Just as he's about to break and default to the most annoying version of himself, Eddie turns to him, resolve face firmly in place, and breaks the silence with, "I'm leaving my wife because I'm gay."

Which is... not what Richie expected. Like, at all.

What do you say when your best friend comes out to you out of the blue? His brain pipes up that whatever that is, it should certainly not be about said friend's skills at breaking the ice, or lack thereof.

He goes with, "You know. I am. Too. That. The thing," which is probably not it either, but the words are out before he can hold them back. He stares, sweat prickling at his forehead, hands vaguely numb around his coffee.

The light from the street lamp next to their bench shines down in harsh shadows. Richie feels a little sick to his stomach. "Oh." Eddie looks genuinely shocked, leaning slightly back as if needing to check whether it's still the same ol' Richie Tozier he's talking to here. Then Eddie's asking him, tone undecipherable, "Since when have you known?"

Other than the trite _I've always known_ reply which sits on the tip of Richie's tongue, the best he can come up with to quell Eddie's intensely expectant expression is, "Uh, I guess I started coming out to people right after Derry. The second time. Not, like, when my folks moved or whatever." Which doesn't _actually_ answer Eddie's question, but close enough for government work.

"Do the Losers know?" Eddie asks, frowning oddly.

"Yes," Richie admits.

"All of them."

"Yes."

"Except for me."

"Eddie—"

"I get it!" he snaps, flailing around on the bench and almost spilling his coffee all over his nice slacks. "You're the last to know about me, too, so. Yeah. That's fine, dude."

It doesn't seem fine to Richie, the "dude" bitter-sounding and detached. And maybe it shouldn't hurt as much as it does. But it does anyway. It hurts physically in his chest, in fact. Richie can't take the time to focus on it, or focus his thoughts on the non-physical pain of it, because Eddie is then adding, apropo of nothing, seemingly moving on immediately from Richie's own confession, "I haven't yet. Since my divorce. Or, like, ever. With a dude."

In the heavy silence which follows Eddie's exhale is loud. Richie just blinks.

"But I'm thinking I have to just do it. Get it over with. The pressure's too much. Rip off the bandaid, that's the only way to go about it," he nods to himself.

For the span of several long moments, Richie does not get it. Then his brain feels as if it's a soiled tissue untwisting itself, a canvas tightly fitted to project for him in all too vivid detail what exactly Eddie means. Richie blushes. Like the little virgin kid he used to be, licking up the crumbs of attention his best friend never knew he was craving.

"Oh," he eloquently says.

"What, you don't think it's a good idea, or...?" Richie doesn't think anything at all, mostly because his brain may have short-circuited somewhere in the last however many seconds or minutes or hours it's been since Eddie uttered the words _get it over with_.

Seemingly indifferent to Richie's lack of response, Eddie goes on to muse, "I mean, it has been years since I even had to think about putting myself out there, you know. Not that there was too much of that with Myra either, mind you. But the last time I went on a date social media wasn't a thing. That's on me, though. I totally get that, dude."

"Uh," Richie agrees, a little lost.

"Yeah, you're right. If I don't do it now, then it's never gonna happen, and I want it to happen. I'm sick of being so fucking lonely, you know."

Oh, Richie knows.

"I'm glad you told me about you. I appreciate it, you know." And he does look it. Beneath the snarky, fussy exterior, Eddie's always been a good friend.

"Not much to tell." Richie clears his throat awkwardly. "No one to tell _about_."

Then Eddie's expression changes to one Richie can't quite decipher. "So you're not, uh, _with_ anyone?" Richie about to give him his best duh expression, but Eddie beats him to it by saying consideringly, "Because you could just rip that bandaid for me." His nose scrunches up, a little adorably and a little too close to distracting Richie from what he's just said.

The words catch up with him. His face might be on the ground, because he certainly can't feel it at the moment.

"Excuse me, but what the actual fuck?" he wheezes out, heart beating in his throat, pulse racing wildly.

A certain stubborn tilt to Eddie's mouth should be answer enough. "You heard me. I mean, if you're not too offended to be near me, that is," he says, eyes rolling in his head in that sassy way Richie remembers well. He doesn't let it distract him like it used to, though.

"Dude! Like, what even is happening right now?" Did he pass out on stage after all and start hallucinating? Because that would explain a whole lot.

"I'm putting myself out there, shit-for-brains! What do you think? I'm not offering my ass up for shits and giggles, you know."

What follows is the brattiest stare-off of Richie's life. Truly riveting stuff here.

After seeing that Eddie's not backing off here and genuinely seems to mean what he's saying, that he's gay and here to stay and very interested in the whole non-hereto approach to sex, he only has to wonder if he's not fully getting it or something, because it almost sounds like he's Eddie first choice here. Then again, out of all of the Losers, Richie might just be the only choice, unless Mike has some news to share with the rest of the class from sunny Florida.

But the details must then still be muddled up in a way Richie can't quite verbalise right now, or Eddie hasn't been paying attention in sex ed. Or watching porn, which is too ridiculous to consider. Although Richie has to admit it's beyond brain-meltingly hot to contemplate the much more likely reality where Eddie has been— _indulging_ —himself— _huh_.

Changing the subject as an excuse to distract his brain from potentially self-combusting works better when he's making an actual point, and Richie does have a very good point to make here. Namely:

"Shouldn't you, like, _you know_. To me?"

Frowning and looking genuinely confused, Eddie says, "Dude, what?"

Yet again ignoring Eddie's "dude," Richie tries to take this logically, despite knowing the entire situation is so far from anything which might resemble logic it's ridiculous at this point. "If you're doing this to make it easier for yourself to put yourself out there," he carefully enunciates, "shouldn't you be the one doing the, you know, _fucking_?"

He's vaguely disgusted with himself for ending that on a whisper, like they're ten and hiding from their parents or something, but there's always going to be a part of him which thinks of Eddie as sweet, innocent Eddie Kaspbrak who doesn't know what boners are, rather than obscenities-spewing adult Eddie currently asking for a friends with benefits one-night stand type of situation. His brain is having trouble handling all of this, but he fears the dichotomy between the two might just be the thing which ultimately breaks it. His resolve to stay detached has, after all, already crumbled.

Eddie, for his part, stares silently for a couple of seconds as if he suspects Richie's being deliberately obtuse here. "Why would I do the fucking? I already know how to fuck. I've fucked several people in my life, it poses zero mysteries to me." Richie feels a little faint at that, which makes it unlikely he's going to get to go off to Eddie about stereotypes in the mainstream and the little guy always taking it like he was about to.

"Plus," Eddie continues, totally untroubled by Richie having a minor breakdown over his words, "I'm partly in this bitch to get dick inside me. This would be the perfect time for you to tell me if that's where you draw the line, man. No offense taken if it is. Uh, like, for real none taken."

Richie thinks he manages to croak out something along the lines of, _I'm good,_ or even, _I'll do it,_ but he blacks out for a few moments there trying to process the sudden and unavoidable mental image of Eddie cruising for dick specifically for the purpose of, like, sitting on it, or letting it fuck him into a mattress, or something equally hot and dirty and meant to break Richie's brain completely, no ifs or buts about it. Only maybe Eddie's butt, he thinks a little hysterically, but he's not about to say any of that out loud.

Dazedly, Richie tries to arrange a time a couple of days from now, if only to give himself some room to breathe properly, not that he truly believes breathing will get anything but harder what with the anticipation and the what-the-fuck-ness of it all. Obviously, he never even considers saying no. Eddie claims tomorrow night works much better for him, though he says it "better for _this_ ," which Richie doesn't quite get.

They decide the place might as well be Richie's Beverly Hills apartment, because when you grow up in a dead man's town, you might as well shack up where it's the best and worst California can offer. The place has seen enough bad life choices that one more would hardly leave a dent. Fair enough it should get a front row seat to this shitshow.

Or maybe not so fair after all, because in Richie's opinion, nothing about this is even a little bit fair. But he watches Eddie's face as he nods along, and can't bring himself to call the whole thing off.

*

Fucking Eddie is the worst idea ever in the history of bad ideas, to which Richie has the distinct impression he has managed to contribute considerably throughout his life.

He can't even think about it as just having sex. There's no _just_ about it, of course, but the way they're planning this makes it very fucking obvious this is about Richie fucking Eddie. Which is the part that has him feeling like a dumb pudding wobbling all over in the middle of his living room in just his boxers for half the morning. Not the ones with the weak waistband scrunching up in flurries of fabric where the elastic has been threatening to pop off for ages now and the hole in the left leg he's managed to stretch by absently poking his fingers through it. Eddie doesn't need to know Richie owns and wears ratty crap he's too emotionally attached to to throw away. He's pretty sure he's gross enough all on his own.

Point in fact, he stubbornly refuses to specifically clean his place up for this, but that becomes a moot point later that day upon realising the moment he walks into his apartment that his cleaning service has probably just left, diligently performing their mid-week services, and thus every single room looks appropriately spotless. This wasn't what Richie wanted. Or not exactly. He simply didn't want it to seem as if he, uh, sort of cleaned in anticipation of Eddie coming over, like a dweeb.

Granted, Eddie's never been to his place, therefore, as far as he's concerned, Richie might be a clean freak now. People change and shit. But there's maybe a part of Richie which still sort of wants Eddie to think of him as Trashmouth aged thirteen, the boy whose bedroom always used to be a mess, even more so when Eddie was about to come over and hang out, the kid who didn't give one flying fuck if his best friend wrinkled his nose about the state of his sheets or the messy floor or the pile of dirty laundry his mom had yet to pick up. Nevermind he's an actual adult now, and this shit wouldn't really fly. Like, Eddie would think he's actively depressed if he walked into his bedroom and was greeted by a grown-up version of Richie's childhood room. But, even so, there's a strange comfort in being that boy again. It's... safe.

On the other hand, the bedroom's going to be the scene of the crime soon enough. Thinking it over, it makes zero sense for him to keep it a mess. Eddie would one hundred percent not want to do anything ever if that were the case.

So, even though his cleaning service is one of the best in town, Richie ends up stripping his bed the second time that day and remaking it himself with a newly-laundered set he pulls out of the hall closet while being quietly horrified with himself over his actions among panicked imaginings of Eddie walking in only to be greeted by below-standards bed sheets and walking right back out in a disappointed huff. He flings open the windows to air the place out some more, and even considers rifling in the back of his wardrobe for some scented candles he's pretty sure he hasn't thrown away from some event or other to make sure any and all unpleasant odours are unlikely to crop up and change Eddie's mind. But then he has to stop and asses. And what he finds is that taking a shower will probably do more for that than artificial vanilla flavours.

It's the worst shower of Richie's life.

He stands under the hot water for probably close to ten minutes, hands by his sides, debating the pros and cons of jerking off before Eddie gets there. When his fingers have already become pruney and his dick is threatening to go the same route is about when he has to admit to himself he's let the situation get a bit out of hand. After that, he resolves to actually clean himself. He vetoes getting off due to the very real fear he won't be able to get it up again, the absolute worst scenario possible.

Standing in his underwear in the middle of his bedroom shortly after towelling off, feeling still a little damp and weirdly self-conscious, he reminds himself foreplay is a thing. Popping off too quickly like a teenager while being an adult person lacking a teenager's refractory period is also unacceptable, if only because he will then have to cut off all ties with civilisation and go off to live in the desert among shrubs and cacti and the like, which sounds like an awful time.

With all this firmly established, he undergoes the task of dressing himself, preferably in a way meant to entice rather than have Eddie yelling at him for dressing like a college pothead in under five seconds, though getting chewed out by him is very likely going to have Richie chub up as anything anyway. There must be something fucked-up about that, surely, but it seems vaguely inconsequential at this stage. He settles for his nicest pair of jeans and a clean tee sans any "funny" logos. He doubts Eddie's going to appreciate them anyway.

At the shrill sound of the downstairs bell, his entire body jerks. He rubs his palm to his cheek and thumbs beneath his left eye, sighing slowly. He bites his lip, and for the span of several long seconds he considers calling it off like the coward he knows he is, but Eddie is brave and undeserving of being stood up by Richie of all people. He lets his doorman know by means of the main security panel positioned next to the coat rack he is certainly expecting company and to let his guest climb right on up, and spends the minute and a half it must take Eddie to cross the lobby and wait for the elevator and ride it up to Richie's floor with his forehead pressed to the cool, sturdy wood of his front door breathing evenly and talking himself down from shaking apart where he stands.

The faint sound of the elevator snaps him out of it, and he unlocks and opens his door with steady, even movements.

Their eyes find each other instantly across a sea of carpet. Eddie stops at once, startled, eyes as big as doorknobs in his head, then seemingly gathers whatever resolve he needs to cross the hall to Richie's threshold and over it when Richie steps to the side to let him through. For his part, Richie tries his best not to smile all nervous and doubtful, and put Eddie off. He's yet to call this off, even though Richie secretly believed he would all of yesterday. Silently closing and locking the door behind him, he turns to Eddie wordlessly toeing off his shoes. His socks are a pale pink colour. Richie has trouble glancing up from them, but knows he has to sooner or later.

When he does, he finds Eddie already looking at him, stare unreadable. Richie, completely swept up in the fear of old for a moment there, finds he doesn't want to know what lurks behind it.

Swallowing heavily, he forces one of his normal grins to the forefront. "Care for a drink?" He's proud about how much his voice doesn't shake.

Eddie stuffs his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. "Not really. But I'll have whatever you're having."

Richie's about to hurl in his own mouth, but he doubts Eddie'd like to hear about it. "Wine?" he asks instead. He's got a few nice bottles lying around, he's pretty sure.

He turns to go looking for something good, quietly relieved for a chance at a breather and to collect himself, but Eddie is blocking his way all of a sudden. "On second thought, maybe alcohol isn't really..." he trails off, looking distracted. He does step back and to the side, ostensibly freeing the way for Richie's escape.

The fear is telling him to take it. The parts of him It hasn't sunk Its claws into are screaming at him to stop being an idiot, and, against awful odds, he _does_ , if only for a little bit.

"Yeah, I don't know if I feel like it either. We should," but he doesn't know where he's going with that particular thought, and Eddie isn't giving off any signs he knows either, slowly glancing between Richie's eyes while waiting him out, mouth slightly parted. "Right. Uh."

"Are you— When did you last brush your teeth?" he asks, weirdly intensely.

"Um. This morning?"

Eddie squints at him suspiciously. "Are you sure? You don't sound sure," he says, all rapid-fire, as if no time has passed at all since they were kids together.

Richie has a lot to say about it, but a manic little giggle is threatening to burst out of him, so he gives in to Eddie's characteristic fussiness before the argument's really started. "If I went to brush my teeth right this very second, would you let it the fuck go?" he asks patiently.

Eddie blinks, then he nods seriously. Right. He leaves Eddie to his own devices without a word.

It's not hiding in his own bathroom if he was basically told to do it.

Rolling his eyes at himself in the mirror, Richie conscientiously brushes and spits and brushes and spits, until he has the overwhelmingly numbing taste of toothpaste seemingly coating his sinuses. With his mouth as minty fresh as he can make it, he turns around and exits his bathroom, but only makes it another couple of steps.

"Nice place," Eddie states. He's hovering by the door, a little uncertain-looking. Then, "We were going to take it to the bedroom anyway, right? I thought," Eddie says and abruptly stops.

Richie nods distractedly, licking his lips, but Eddie doesn't have more to add, just moves in, and then stops again. Richie is sweating bullets.

Eyes flicking from Richie's face to a spot somewhere over his shoulder, Eddie suddenly grins. For a few moments, he scans the room interestedly, before saying, "I'm gonna assume here you don't do your own housekeeping."

Richie glances around them, too. "Yeah, it's really—" But he doesn't get to finish that thought because Eddie is suddenly as close as he can get without occupying the same space as Richie and already fisting the front of his shirt and using it to turn him around to face him. They stare unblinkingly at each other for a second or two, then Eddie's eyes zero in on Richie's lips, and— _oh_.

OK, so, Richie figured there would be no actual kissing if the entire experiment is about getting Eddie comfortable or whatever with the sorts of sexual acts he hasn't experienced yet, and being sent to his room to brush his teeth was just Eddie being Eddie. He still vaguely believes that's it, mystery solved, only they're still standing close together and Eddie is telegraphing definite kissing-vibes here. Unless...

But maybe it's not about kissing after all. Eddie's eyes flicker away and to a spot somewhere about where Richie's collarbone is situated beneath the fabric of his shirt, which Eddie has stopped holding now that Richie's facing him, the contact no longer necessary. The more they stand like that, the more that seems to be true, because neither of them are moving, and Richie second-thinks everything about it several times in the span of just a few seconds. Except then Eddie's gaze drifts up his face and their eyes lock, and Eddie's lips part just a little, enough that Richie's mouth is full of minty drool all of a sudden, and his head is leaning down, and Eddie's eyes are now slits.

And there might be more Richie's eyes are missing, but he has them closed and he's breathing Eddie in, the warm little puffs of air he's exhaling by Richie's lips, and swallowing compulsively with a need about to overwhelm him. And then they really are kissing.

It's, oddly enough, like getting all the air punched out of his body for the first instant before his brain catches up with what his body is doing and he takes a deep, head-spinning breath through his nose. That's maybe a mistake, as all he's getting is a deep breath of Eddie's cologne, a subtle scent except for how unsubtly it gets Richie hard in his jeans, toes curling in the bedroom carpet, but his thoughts can barely linger on that when everything he's now about is licking Eddie's lips, because Richie may have wanted many things in his life, he may have wished and prayed to an unknowable and hostile universe for his dreams to come true knowing fully they never would, but he's not the sort of idiot who would look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when it's the thing he's wanted all along since being a mouthy little kid himself—licking Eddie's pink pouty lips, getting to pry them apart and bite at them and leave his taste there—ever since he could recall what wanting even was. Yeah, he's maybe in too deep here.

But that thought is fleeting. It doesn't matter. All that matters is licking around the backs of Eddie's teeth and touching the tip of his tongue to his as if it were his very first time frenching. It's shocking to have Eddie be the one who sucks on his tongue, bold as anything, but he's too embarrassed by the deep moaning sound which escapes him to question what is even happening except for how on board he is with everything.

And then what embarrassment was there a moment ago is gone, giving way to Richie finally going all in, pawing at the sides of Eddie's face to tip it to the side and tongue-fucking his way inside, a little rougher than he would have thought he would be with Eddie of all people, but Eddie can take it, paws at him in return, because he always could keep up, and it's evident now that whatever else Eddie has been missing, kissing wasn't it. The fleeting jealousy is nothing new, but Richie can be a little greedy, as long as it's inside his own head. He's getting all he could have ever wanted right now, but he's still the greedy bastard who wants more more more, all of it, every single part of this Eddie which he never got until now, not until Eddie decided he was worth it for a night. He craves it as much as he knows that's for him and him only to know.

Case in point, Richie's hands start itching to feel more than just the sides of Eddie's face. He's got a great face, great for kissing certainly, but Richie wants to feel as much as possible before the dream bubble he's walked into bursts.

He gropes his way to Eddie's shoulders, which he definitely appreciates, and down his arms, which are ridiculous for someone who's forty and working the most boring job in the universe, until he finally reaches Eddie's chest. A part of Richie feels like a teenager finally managing to cop a feel, and he's tempted to stop what they're doing just to make a crack about it, but when what he's doing is kissing Eddie Kaspbrak the trashmouthing can wait. It helps that his palms have found Eddie's pecs through his shirt, the shape of them just right in his hands. Richie might be all in when it comes to dudes, but he can appreciate a nice pair on anyone, and Eddie's got more than enough to have him drooling in his pants.

It's an accident when his thumb brushes over Eddie's left nipple. To his grave, he hadn't considered it. He wasn't going to go there, wasn't sure it was a thing that was on the table at all, but Eddie inhales sharply and the air in Richie's lungs freezes before he hears it, the little ragged half-moan, something Eddie maybe didn't want to make, but it's real and out there and filling Richie's head with static.

One hand slowly unfists from Richie's shirt to grab onto his wrist, and for a moment he thinks Eddie's about to pull his hand away from his chest altogether, but instead Eddie's fingers grip the bones and push his hand closer, while his other hand twists Richie's shirt fabric tightly enough that he feels the seams pull at his shoulder. He takes that as encouragement, and his thumb tweaks and flicks eagerly, wants to bite at the little nub, too, get it wet and puckered under his mouth, a nipple-shaped wet spot through the fabric.

He bites at Eddie's tongue instead, just a nip, and _that_ gets Eddie panting into his mouth and rising on the tips of his toes as if wanting to get closer. Richie straightens up where before he was meeting Eddie halfway, knees slightly bent and waist tipped forward. And it pays off, because between stretching himself to keep the contact between their lips and Richie's thumb continuously working at his chest, Eddie's now mewling pathetically into Richie's mouth, the best sound anyone's ever heard, and Richie's the one pulling it out of him.

Almost on cue, they separate to catch their breaths, and Richie's tongue feels thick in his mouth, awkward, now that he's not sticking it in Eddie's mouth. It's a weird thought to have about kissing someone, that it would change your anatomy, even if that's not quite it, the change isn't permanent and all of this will disappear once Eddie's out the door.

He dives back in after only a few heavy breaths, this time allowing his palms to seek out Eddie's solid little waist beneath his shirt, the sharp bones of his hips poking out above the waistband of his jeans. When Eddie reaches and grabs for his shoulders and licks at the underside of his lip, he has to stop his fingers from reaching around to palm the meat of his ass. They're making out, enthusiastically so, but Eddie hasn't indicated he has permission to take it further, just yet or ever, despite crushing their mouths together and mewling when Richie tightens his hold at his waist.

This time when he pulls away from Eddie's mouth, he keeps them close and roughly says in the space between their mouths, "I wanna—" and Eddie's already saying back, "You can, whatever you want," but what Richie wants is everything.

So he tells himself he's being practical and focused as he says, "I need to, uh, open you up. May I—" but again Eddie's talking over him, too readily allowing him too much.

"Yes! _Yes._ Fuck, Rich, I swear to _god,_ " kind of impatiently, but it's what Richie needs to hear, so he finally does what he's been wanting to do since he got Eddie into his arms, and closes his hands around his thighs, fingers dragging up to his ass, digging his fingertips into the middle seam of his jeans, palms cupping each cheek. Richie's always had big hands and Eddie is bottom-heavy and thick, so it's a perfect fit as far as he's concerned, and Eddie must like it well enough because he's back to tonguing his way inside Richie's mouth and letting himself be walked backwards to the other side of the room to crumble onto the fresh sheets.

It occurs to him as he's pushing Eddie to the bed that he forgot to set up condoms and lube. He has to disentangle them to reach over Eddie's body to his nightstand and rifle in both drawers before pulling supplies out. He hasn't been this nervous since his actual first time, and he fumbles the tube and barely catches it before it lands on Eddie's face. The foil packets scatter and fall over the side of the bed, but Richie manages to snatch one out of the air before it's lost and he has to crawl down onto the floor or underneath the bed for it.

"Smooth," Eddie breathes. His hair is sticking up every which way like a crown where his head is lying on Richie's pillow.

"Rude," Richie says back, but he's smiling, feeling a little fond, a little like he'd like to kiss him some more, kiss the snark right out of him and the cocky look off his face. Yeah, he's definitely got a good face for kissing. It's useless to pretend Richie hasn't always thought so.

He hesitates then, kneeling awkwardly next to Eddie's splayed legs. They both do. They're both still dressed, but neither is reaching for their own clothing, or each other's. It's the weirdest stalemate, but Richie hasn't got it in him to make the first move when the person in his bed in Eddie Kaspbrak, with his fit, tight body making Richie regret every beer and piece of junk food he's ever even looked at.

Glancing to the side confusedly for a couple of long moments, Eddie then refocuses his eyes on Richie's and seems to be trying to stare him down before he groans long-sufferingly. Richie might not be ready to throw his clothes off at the drop of a pin, but Eddie certainly seems to have no such qualms. He rolls his eyes before he shuffles himself backwards, head nearly hitting the headboard, and then he does what Richie's brain can only interpret as the hottest half-sit-up known to man, during which he manages to reach for the back of his shirt and fling it off quicker than Richie can blink. It lands between them, and Richie fears for a moment that he's going to get up to fold it over a chair or something inanely fussy like that, but he only grabs it to place it on top of the nightstand. He shimmies out of his jeans and toes off his socks just as efficiently, his grey briefs the last to go, everything ending up in a neat pile by Richie's lamp.

Chin jutting upwards challengingly, Eddie really does stare him down then. Richie reminds himself he agreed to this, but, more importantly, that he wants this, has wanted this for three decades. Gift horse, mouth, et cetera.

Deciding it'll go better for him if he's not making eye contact, Richie stares at his own hands the entire time, valiantly ignoring the pink blush of Eddie's lips or nipples or cock, Jesus fuck.

Next thing he knows, his underwear is joining his shirt and jeans to lie in a pile on the floor next to the bed. Oddly enough, Eddie hasn't commented on Richie being a slob and a half the entire time, simply letting him get on with it, and when Richie looks up, he watches his throat bob beneath his red face.

Somehow, while undressing, Richie ended up kneeling between Eddie's ankles, whose toes dig into the bedding on every deep exhale. His gaze travels up his legs and a pair of solid freckled thighs to the needy space between them to notice Eddie's just as hard as him, so at least he's not alone in this, though it's of little comfort when he feels like he could use his dick to pound nails right about now, the tip swollen nearly purple. Embarrassingly enough, he's visibly leaking onto himself, and staring from Eddie's junk to his and back again only results in more pre-come bubbling up at the tip.

He tries a shaky smile, almost companionable, but Eddie's having none of it.

"What the fuck?"

"Uh. What? Is this not what—"

"Fair warning would have been nice," he says tartly, eyes narrowed on Richie's dick. If that weren't enough to make any dude self-conscious, Richie doesn't know what would.

"It's a little—"

"There's nothing little about it, man." Eddie's eyeballs seem to be close to bulging out of their sockets.

After failing to verbalise the numerous thoughts floating around his head, Richie settles on, "Dude, are you, like, serious here? It's not a dick-measuring contest." Instantly, his breath catches, a stray suspicion rearing its ugly head. "Unless it's not your—"

Eddie gets his elbows underneath him, frowning deeply, words cascading over each other in his haste to get them out. "It's totally mine! I mean, a thing I would— You're—" He stops speaking abruptly, mouth still slightly parted, before blushing furiously, and then just looks oddly furious with himself. Richie doesn't understand, but doesn't think he's meant to.

What Richie would like a thousand times more than to read Eddie's thoughts is to ask _I'm what?_ You can always get more from a person from their reaction to you than if they were to just come out and say whatever was on their minds. But the air in the room is fragile, thin and prone to shifting in wild directions, the wrong word easily able to sour the mood. He doesn't know what he's supposed to say here, how he can make this better, or if there's still a chance to do so. Isn't even sure what he did to ruin this, other than have, like, a weird dick apparently.

It's true he hasn't gotten any in a pretty long while, longer than he'd like to admit out loud, but he's never been in a situation where he had to be on damage control before the actual sex even occurred.

Eddie is biting at his lip worriedly, but he shakes his head, still a little in thought for a few instants there before his brow clears and he stares determinedly at Richie's dick before nodding, probably to himself, the weirdo.

"Uh, dude?" Richie tries.

"It's just that it's, um, thicker? I guess? Than I'm used to. With me. It's kinda like a porn-dick, right?"

"It is not a porn-dick, what the fuck, man."

Vaguely offended, he states, as if it's the actual truth, "It so is." Mouth cracking into a weird half-smile, he adds, "But that's, like, good? It's supposed to be an asset and shit."

"Is it?" Richie is genuinely asking here.

Eddie doesn't take the time to think that over or offer up an answer. He asks, "You know how to use that thing?"

"Wow," Richie says, deadpan. "I appreciate the confidence in my skills here, Eds. Real ego-booster for sure." Rolling his eyes, he sighs and wonders why he ever thought this could be a good idea, or even a mediocre one.

Dropping both the bottle of lube and the condom between his knees, he shakes his head, then reaches with both hands to rub at his eyes beneath the frames of his glasses, idly considering keeping them closed until he either dies of mortification or Eddie gets bored and leaves. A man can dream.

When he opens them back up, hands falling to rest on his thighs, Eddie's mouth is twisting in a complicated expression. His elbows are still supporting him, giving Richie a clear view of the muscles in his arms and shoulders starkly bunching up, the planes of his solid chest and the trail of hair leading down to where he's now only half-hard. And it's better than any porn, he'll readily admit that as fact. Richie swallows compulsively a couple of times, and his balls contract before his dick spurts out more pre so obviously he wonders how and when he got so plainly pathetic.

Eddie swallows, too, and bites his lips some more. "Get the lube." The imperious tone doesn't help Richie's hard-on situation. _Don't fucking come, asswipe. Don't you dare fucking come right now._ His brain must know you're not supposed to come just from your friend firmly but not forcefully telling you what to do, because he's still valiantly holding on. Unclear for how long that'll be the case, though, so he gets a move on before he well and truly humiliates himself.

His hands aren't shaking, which, like, small victories, whatever, Richie's _got this_ , even if he has to go out and buy Eddie a plastic cock to sit on if his body decides it's had too much and cheats him out of this. He gets the lube and pours some out over the faint white line running the length of his palm. His fingers are steady, his skeleton iron now, even as Eddie stretches his legs apart to reveal the hidden parts of himself. He notices he's fully hard once again and twitching faintly as Richie holds onto one of his thighs to make room for himself.

"I showered before coming over," Eddie whispers in the space between them, his words eager, his eyes round and soft.

Saying _I could give a shit_ would probably ruin the mood, so Richie doesn't say anything at all. He finds Eddie's hole with his middle finger and presses hesitantly. Eddie makes a small sound Richie feels in his bones. It's not quite a moan, but his shoulders untense and his arms give out beneath him, as if his whole body is finally giving Richie the go-ahead.

He tries not to lose his mind while he fingers Eddie Kaspbrak open, which is not a thought he ever, not in a million years, would have believed he'd have, but here they are. As tempting as it would be to ask Eddie if he's ever done this before to himself, it feels like the wrong moment, too intimate of a question for too intimate of a time. And, maybe, Richie doesn't have the right to even ask, not if Eddie didn't feel like it was information he wanted to share himself after Richie's show or just a short while ago before they got nonverbal. Sometimes it's as much about the things we don't say unprompted. Richie isn't an asshole, despite popular belief.

He doesn't zone out. Quite the opposite. He feels present, skin too tightly on, every single action sharply imprinting itself on his brain. Eddie's hands wrinkle the sheets for a long time, fingers clenching and unclenching constantly, up until Richie's up to two fingers and flirting with adding another, even though he knows the weird part about going from two to three has always been how much fuller it feels than an actual cock up there, as if you're getting fisted the entire time it takes your body to get used to the stretch. Only the tip of a third finger makes it in before Eddie's releasing the bedding, one hand clawing at Richie's wrist between his legs, the other palming at his own chest, thumb pressing into the underside of a pec. Richie freezes, thinking it's too much, but the hand at his wrist pulls him closer, guides him in, and for once he wishes he were a sports guy because reciting baseball statistics to himself sounds like the only thing which could possibly keep him from jizzing up the inside of Eddie's thigh right now, Jesus Christ.

He feels like a looseleaf binder full of the papers which make up his life, the wants and wishes and desires, and if Eddie's not careful he's gonna have him spilling them everywhere, papers flying to reveal too much when all Eddie wanted from him was an afternoon of show and tell to get him going for the next person in his life, the real person who gets to have him.

But Richie's a good friend, too. He makes it good, searches out the sweet spot as if his life depends on it and screws his fingers in _just so_ , pouring more lube onto them and making a shiny, wet mess of Eddie's thighs.

Soon enough he extracts his fingers and puts the condom on. He's not sure if his hands are still firmly solid, or if his entire body has started shaking and he simply can't tell anymore what's what.

It only occurs to him after he's kneed his way tightly in to press himself to Eddie's body and he's holding himself to his hole that he never asked if Eddie wanted it in another position, maybe on top to have the chance at setting the pace, or maybe has changed his mind altogether and Richie hasn't noticed the signals, hasn't thought to ask him if he's still sure.

He's about to verbalise some of that, when Eddie breathlessly snaps, "Stop stalling, dickhead," and Richie's cock spurts more pre-come into the little pocket at the end of the condom, and he knows it's go-time, if only because he doesn't believe he's going to last that much longer.

It's a tight fit. The head doesn't want to pop in for the first few instants, not until Richie cants his hips and screws them in. Then he finds himself already half of the way to being fully sheathed inside Eddie, whose eyes are shut tightly, breaths coming out harshly through his open mouth.

The push in is agony, but the drag back out is even worse, Eddie's hole twitching around him as if unwilling to let him go. Richie covers his body with his and draws on any ounce of patience he might be able to find within himself, any smidgeon of control to make it last and make it good. It's not a whole lot, that's not who he is, but Eddie deserves so much more than a quick wham-bam, and Richie might not have anything to do with what happens once Eddie's out of his bed, but he sure as fuck can give him something decent while he has him.

Losing track of time is almost expected. Logically, it's only possible for it to have been mere minutes since he first fucked his way inside, but his head is foggy with the details and all of his muscles ache from keeping himself focused on being as gentle as possible, startlingly aware it could go wrong real fast when you're putting your cock in someone.

He doesn't know if he should be talking dirty here, try to make it an audio-visual experience, but he's never been a talker during. He's chatty and loud outside of bed, but under the sheets he's never been able to keep the dirty talk serious and sexy, too prone to cracking jokes and lightening the mood in a bad way.

But it's too good. He doesn't let his brain consider what Eddie makes of his performance, but, as far as he's concerned, Eddie is kind of melting his brain through his cock.

"Fuck, Eddie, _fuck_ ," Richie bites out, palms braced above Eddie's shoulders, arms trembling only a little holding up his own weight while coordinating his hips to thrust evenly, carefully. The drag is excruciating regardless.

Where Richie's stretching him open, Eddie is far too tight, and he's making delicious noises which are chipping away at Richie's self-control, and he doesn't know for how long he can hold out so he can make it as good for Eddie as it is for him. Eddie's breath catches on a ragged moan, and Richie bows his head and swivels his hips and prays he's not a complete disappointment.

All signs point towards his doing _something_ right, judging by the way Eddie reaches for him, grasping at his shoulders, short nails digging into meat and muscle and bone. It stings, but he can barely feel it with the way Eddie is clutching at him.

It's overwhelming. It always has been, which is why Richie genuinely likes sex so much, can only be at any given time either all in or a big basket of nope, but, somehow, having it with Eddie, having Eddie squeezing around him, moaning into his ear, scrambling at the tops of his shoulders for purchase, is devastating in ways he hasn't quite felt before, a star going supernova's worth of _too much, so good_. It's unbearable.

He can't afford to fuck this up _now_. He doesn't allow his hands to tremble, as much as they'd want to, least of all when he leans on one forearm in order to brush the palm of his other hand over Eddie's shoulder and dawn his torso, dragging it to that final spot between them to grip at Eddie's cock where it's wet and leaking onto his own belly. Eddie inhales sharply and tightens all over. Richie tries and fails not to go electric in his clutch, feels as if his dick is too big to fit inside of him in the best of ways.

He doesn't let himself get distracted. His hand works between them to make it sweet, the friction just right to have Eddie's head tip backwards on his neck, the top of his head burrowing into the pillow beneath it, mouth hanging open on a wordless gasp which turns into a needy mewl.

With his head thrown back, the cords of his neck stand out. Idly, Richie thinks it must be coming, all that pressure, it has to go somewhere. He thinks Eddie must be close, and his chest swells with pride that he's to blame, at least a little bit, for it.

He comes a lot, Eddie does. It threatens to mess him up, get him dirty like he probably doesn't want to ever be, but Richie catches as much as he can in his palm before it can spill over everywhere, runny egg white he then drags up and down his dick, uses it to keep the friction sweet before he feels Eddie's hips shifting away from his grip. He gathers it back into his hand, now a flothy spill Richie would be licking off his own hand were it not for the fact he's pretty sure Eddie would kick him out of bed on the spot if he tried it with him there.

But it's that thought, the abstract notion that he ever could lick Eddie's creamy little spunk right up, swallow all of it right down, that has him coming in jerky little thrusts inside of him. He catches himself before collapsing ungracefully onto him, filthy hand tightening into a stiff fist by Eddie's shoulder still clutching wetly at Eddie's come. He doesn't mean to bury his face against the side of his neck, but his head feels too heavy to hold itself up.

They breathe together heavily for several moments. Richie doesn't want to hurt him, but the aftershocks on his sensitive cock still buried inside Eddie's hole are suddenly too much, and he slowly pulls himself out, holding the base of the condom against his dick with come-stained fingers Eddie hopefully doesn't notice. Collapsing on one side of him seems like a plan. A better plan would be never getting out of bed ever, but that's the least likely thing to happen to him, including killing an alien sewer clown.

Eddie certainly has no qualms about getting up. Out of the corner of his eye, Richie notices his legs are already dangling off the edge of the bed.

"I need to shower, like, right the fuck now." It's without a doubt the least surprising thing he's said to Richie all week. "But," he continues, "initial feedback? Not a bad start." And he's right back to blowing Richie's mind, though in a completely different way.

Start?

What?

"What?"

But Eddie's already closing the bathroom door, leaving Richie staring at it from the middle of the bed, utterly confused.

Too few coherent thoughts left rattling around his come-drunk head means he's still staring, discombobulated and sticky, when the shower turns on inside.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this story about two months ago, and it's definitely been a labour of love that I had to finally start posting. Next chapter in a couple of days/start of next week. Comments and kudos will definitely be supremely appreciated, of course.
> 
> I'm [rhubarbdreams @ tumblr](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/) if you want to share in my unrelenting Reddie obsession.


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